


The Wonders of Modern Technology

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Embarrassment, F/M, Gifts, Non-Penetrative Sex Toys, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Vibrating Underwear, generosity, misfortune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: You are going to treat yourself to the tip top, la-dee-dah, blue ribboniest treat you’ve ever even looked sideways at: self-warming underwear.  Good-bye chilly weather, fuck you cold bunker, adios reptile jokes!  Your ass is gonna be hot!





	The Wonders of Modern Technology

**Author's Note:**

> @daydreamerknightthinker put this to me and I’m so damn stuck and stale on everything I just wanted to write something okay? Something I haven’t already broken. Hope you enjoy your trope!
> 
> My undying-but-in-a-wants-to-live-sort-of-way thanks to @mrswhozeewhatsis for once again wading in with me on a fic.

_Heat up your tush via bluetooth!_ That’s all the ad said, all that you’d really read of it before clicking the tab closed, but it caught in your mind pretty damn fast.

Already, you’re imagining yourself demurely dialling up the warmth on your phone, delicately dragging your finger over the screen while nodding at something Sam’s saying, still keeping your place on some How to Kill Your Dragon text, and he’d be none the wiser.  Maybe, after a week or so, Dean might ask why you’ve stopped sitting on your nanna-cushion, or complaining about the cold, and you’d smile the smile of a woman gone smug with genuine warmth.

You  _could_ get an actual heated cushion, or a rice pack, but then you’d have to carry it to the kitchen, the map room…

You pull the blanket around your shoulders and dismiss the ad once more.  Who purchases from facebook ads anyway?  No one sensible, that’s who.

…

Gosh, they’re sexy.  You’d picked them up from the PO box and rushed them home, then unpacked them so fast you’d only stopped long enough to check the battery size and connect the app - Hot Pants by Heatronics.  And it isn’t just Bluetooth either; it’s wifi  _and_  cellular!

Light pink, with black lace, and a little heavy but gee whizz they’re snug and the weight of the heating mechanism is pretty much inconsequential.  You assume, too, that the fabric is designed to distribute the warmth across the pants, which would explain the lack of any device on the cheeks.

Remote controlled warmth.  You can’t get over it.  Surely this is the height of luxury.

…

Four days later, it’s the third day in a row when the autumn sun is expected to fade to clouds and the afternoon to become quite chilly.  You wiggle on your new undies and swish yourself in front of the mirror, practically gleeful at how easily you’ve thwarted Nature. You’re going to be comfortable! A nice, human temperature! At the touch of your phone!  Joy!

…

“Okay, so we gotta get her outta here for a while.”

“I got Jerry meeting her for those mermaid scales we were looking at.  Should take her a good two hours.”  Dean rubs his hands together, itching to start the project.

And with timing so perfect it makes them squint, you arrive beside them.  “So he’s at this address and it’s six mermaid scales,” you double check, holding up the piece of paper for confirmation.

“That’s it,” nods Dean.  He fake smiles, then doesn’t smile, then looks at Sam to occupy himself.

“Yyyyokay, well, I’m taking the burner phone because I heard of someone getting picked up by the state troopers with something like this and they yoinked them for drugs.  Wish me luck!”

Sam and Dean say it together, “Good luck!”  They both clear their throats, then glare at each other just to finish out the bar.

They turn to the tables and pretend to shuffle things around, furtively watching you trot out the door and head down the corridors.  Before they even hear a door shut, Sam’s dashed off to the telescope room to grab the box he bought.  It’s a Hot Space wall-mountable, Bluetooth-controlled heater, by Heatronics.

…

Jerry is always nice, and it’s always nice to catch him up on what’s new and what you’ve discovered since the last catch up, but there’s also always a moment when you wish you’d left already.

“So when’s that Dean gonna make an honest woman outta you?” he says, flapping an elbow out at yours.

“Ooooh Jerry, there’s nothing there, okay?”

He groans, “Yeah, there is.”

“No, there isn’t.  If there was, he’d have done something about it by now.”

Jerry squints at you with that twinge, a tight little pinch at the corner of his eye that says he isn’t thrilled.  “ _He’s_  the only reason I’m keepin’ my distance, you know?”

“Right.  Well, on that note, I’m off.”  You open your car door and lean as if to get in.  “Say Hi to everyone for us.  And thanks for the goods.”

“No problem, Y/N.  You take care,” he says.  “And let the poor boy know he’s in with a chance at least.  No point wastin’ you.”

“Okay then!”

Ten minutes later you’re heading down the highway, watching the clouds creep over and getting warm already just from the satisfaction that as soon as you get back to your phone, you’re crrrrankin’ the toasty times!

…

“Hey,” says Dean.  “Do you think it’s just coincidence Y/N’s already got the app on her phone?”

“Whaddyamean?”  Sam leans sideways to look over Dean’s shoulder.  He’s got one hand holding the box and another still mid-stuffing the packaging inside it.  They got the job done toot sweet, with at least half an hour to go.

“I just saw an update notification on her phone for the same brand,” Dean explains.  He unlocks your phone and finds the app.

“Huh,” says Sam, still frozen with curiosity, and recognises the logo.  It’s a pretty simple app. Just open it up and there’s the dial from cold to hot.  “You should test it out.  She’s the one who’ll want it on anyway.”

So Dean looks at the wall-mounted heater, and back at the dial presented on the screen, and swipes his thumb up, about a quarter.

…

“Yy _YYY_ yyy-! What the-”

You know how sometimes you get a faulty nerve?  They twinge or hurt for no discernible reason and you just, like, trust it’s malfunctioning?  Can skin do that, too, yeah? Maybe?

…

“I think we need to turn it on with the actual remote first.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam picks it up off the table and stabs the air at the heater in the universal gesture of turning on something by remote. A beep precedes the gentle whirr and whoosh of machinery and air.

Dean watches it start up, and after he’s satisfied it’s going, he tries again, and turns up the heat a third of the way around.

…

“WwwwOOHMY GOD!”  You clench your ass cheeks together and rise off the seat, shoving your foot against the wall of the well.  “What the- Fuck!  _Fuck!!_   Ho!  Ho shit!” You choke on a swallow and try to sit properly and drive and not run up the back of the truck in front and not slow into the grill of the truck behind but holy sweet merciful Son of  _Mary_ , these panties are broken - they’re not heating, they’re  _shaking_.  

“Jeeeehsuuuuuuus-” Your voice has hit a new note and all you can think is  _I’m sorry?_

…

“I’m not sure it’s working.”

Sam’s come back into the library, and picks up the remote again, peering at the icons.  “It’s definitely set to heat.”

“Yeah, it’s warmer than it was, I think.”  Dean’s not sure it’s going to be detectably warmer, by your standards.  “What’s it say on there?”

“About a third?” Sam’s not sure what that means.  He doesn’t much mind; he just wants something that works for you, even if it means you sit in the same seat forever just to get the warm breeze.

Dean shrugs, and says, “Well, let’s go two-thirds.  Make it nice and toasty.  She’ll appreciate that.”

…

“MOtherFU-UUUCK!  FUHHHCK!   _Haaahhhhh!”_

You can drive, if you stay at this exact speed.  

_“Hmmmmm!  Hnnnng!”_

If you don’t have to indicate, or turn on wipers, or shift outta fourth, anything but steer from the top of the wheel, you can probably get home in one piece.  Your grimace probably has you looking like you’re trying to pry a crab off your clam.  God willing, the truck behind you won’t overtake.

Very soon, every exhale is a noisy plead, and you figure out to shove a hand down your pants, between the panties and yourself.  They buzz against your knuckles and you relax, slowly slumping into the seat, feelling your vulva ring inside your hold, and you concentrate on staying this distance from the taillights ahead of you.

You chance a few seconds to pull the window switch with a wet finger, breathing in the fresh wind for some other stimulation, anything to distract.  You just don’t have enough private time to stop and push the seat back, take off your shoes and pants and get enough of it back on before everybody get a drive-by show.  

You’ll be okay.  You’ve gone through worse.  Lebanon will be in sight soon enough.

Then the blessed traffic starts to slow.

…

Dean looks at his watch, and comments to Sam, “Geez, good thing we didn’t hurry.  Where the hell is she?”

Sam’s curious, too, so on a hunch he checks out the traffic notices.  “There’s an accident outside-a town,” he reports.  “Logging truck overturned with its load.  Everyone’s okay.  Police are redirecting traffic.”

“Ugh.  That’s annoying.  Hey, what does the remote say?”

Sam picks it up and reads, “Oh, wait, that’s not a third: that’s the fan vane.  It’s 74 degrees.”

“God, no wonder I’m stifling.” Dean whips his flannel shirt off his shoulders and stands.  “Better go start dinner.”

…

You’ve kept a car’s length between you and the truck ahead, just in case you want to pull over, though you can’t imagine to what use. The road’s bare and exposed for a mile either way, and its gentle curve makes for the perfect dress circle, were you to give them a show.

The guy in front has one of those wall-eyed domes on his side-mirror, and you can see him checking behind, so you’re trying not to dig into your lap, nor lose focus and O-face a whole show for him.  “Hmm-hmm-hmmmm.”  You keep your voice low, measured and start to nod your head like there’s a song playing as you shift your foot from accelerator to brake.  “Just a normal day _AY_ ay, drivin’  _ON_  my way-ay, stayin’ cool today-ay- SSSSS _FRICK!”_  The traffic stills for a few seconds and you kick your hips up, snatching into the seatbelt.

Nodding still and leaning back as if there’s a puddle in your seat, your brain performs some kind of drunken philosophy while you try to keep from moving.  “Soooooo okay.  Sooo fine.  I’ll be fine.  Am fine.  S’nothin’.   _Hnnng!”_   

It’s just that  _one of them’s got your phone._  One of those bastards is tazing your bean into delirium and while you try to act unaffected so no one comes looking at you, you’re trying to figure out why the hell it’s happening at all.

“Hoh Sam,” you pray.  “Samsamsamsam.”  It’s gotta be.  Surely it’s Sam unwittingly doing things on your phone.  Maybe he had to dig up a photo.  “Hooooooofuckfuck.”  Or something.

The traffic moves again and you curse your romance for manual cars; using all the controls makes you lose some of yours.  It’s a viscerally hot few moments of doing average everyday things while the sex toy against your pussy edges you, ruthlessly, indifferently, and as the convoy slows and your shaky hands shift the car back to first, you feel something human and vulnerable begin to unravel inside.

“I’mma kill you Sam.” Yes.  Sam. It has to be Sam.  You need it to be Sam, even with all the embarrassment and mortification, even if it turns into a dreaded joke, you would pay for this to be because of Sam, and not Dean.  “Shshshshshit.  Oh, God, I can’t.”

Not Dean looking at the app and tapping it open in quiet curiosity.  Maybe he’d wonder what an app like this was doing on your phone - because he’d surely recognise it - quickly connecting the dots and becoming more than a little turned on at the realisation.

Not Dean, please, deciding that he’s not going to go to your room and listen for buzzing through the drawers– “Oh.  Oh, crap.   _No,”_  you plead. –but, instead, choosing to lick his lips and watch his thumb test out the dial, glancing around the room as though you’ll materialise to tell him off.  He’d give it a try and stare at his own phone like a thief, because surely you’ll call him and say What the Hell.

“Sonofabitch.  You bastard.”  Not Dean’s voice.  “Oh, Jesus.”  Not the way it would vibrate you, just like this, his throat long against you when he tells you how you taste-

You drop your head for a moment, all your muscles giving in, and push your weight into the sensation, as though you can actually shut the thing up and stop it.  It doesn’t care.  “Ohhhhrrrfuck,” you growl, smearing yourself into it from the shoulders down.

Maybe he’s pretending to listen to Sam while he imagines you, pulled over near the woods to let loose.

You grip the wheel and curl, torso pulling tall, core strung long.  You think you can feel the vibrations pulse stronger,  **strong** er,  **strong** er, surging against you and you grind yourself onto each fat throb. Like a subwoofer, it nudges your guts, drawing you up, making you sweat, and you cannot tell if it’s really the panties, or if your body’s finally broken into a full gallop.

Because surely it’s Dean at the other end, sweet and mean and hot for it, controlling your pleasure, delicately dragging his fingertip across the screen like it’s you right there.  You imagine calling him on the burner, so he can hear your desperation, and him saying  _Yeah, baby, how’s that? Come on home.  I’m waiting, right here._

Denial was working so well.  “Jesus,  _fuck_  and hell.”

…

“Hey,” Dean hollers from the kitchen, “is use-by November 2012 okay? You think? …Sam?”

But Sam’s in another room.  There’s just your innocent, unanswering phone, laying on the table beside the heater manual, diligently sending its signals, with 68% battery remaining.

…

“You okay ma’am?”

“Mm- _hmm?”_  Dolphins heard that, not him.  You have both hands on the wheel, nice and visible, and you’re rigid, the only thing about you moving freely being your vagina and the pulsing, weeping flesh thereabouts.  You breathe hard and measured and pretend it’s not just traffic standing still, but time.

He’s over the other side of the road, on the gravelly shoulder, stretching his legs for a moment.  “Are you really okay, ma’am?”  The guy leans his hands on his thighs and looks through the window at your clenching self.

After a few seconds, he takes a few steps your way, walking as though his hands are stuck to his knees.  He’s wearing a grey t-shirt, navy-brown tartan flannel, and jeans.  If you added ten years, and salt-and-peppered Dean’s hair and made his nose a bit bigger, this guy’d be his doppelganger.

“You look a little tense,” he remarks.  His voice is so low it’s almost cruel.

 _Maybe_ , you think,  _if I just relax, it won’t be such a big deal._  So you breathe out, deflate with it, but instead of disengaging your tension, you’ve pressed your weight against the seam of your jeans and the most delicious rub of pleasure slips into the groove.  Even your eyebrows get in on it.

He’s close enough now to lean his hand on the door frame, so you better say something.

“Ho- _ooooooyyy_ eah.  _Yes_.”  You swallow and nod your head like your neck bones are oiled.  “I just-  Oh.  Grrd.”  You thump the steering wheel with a flat palm, and resist rocking into the feeling any more.  “I get-”  Breathe in, through the nose.  “I get nervous.  In traffic.  Sometimes.”  Unclench your jaw.  “And.   _And_.”  Lift your hips a bit, just half an inch of relief.  There.  “And I can get a bit nauseous in traffic jams. Wooooooo.”

“Well, they’re gonna get you outta here quick smart ma’am.”  He taps the top of the car before leaning back to check the progress of the work.

You shift your knees out - no good - and in, settling for neither.  Everything is damp.  “Yep.”

“I’m right here okay? If you need to get outta the car, or whatever, or you need me to talk you through it, I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Hoh, my god.”  You’re going to swallow your tongue.  “That’s so good of you, Sir.”

…

“Do you want chilli?  I feel like chilli.”

“How high does this thing go? 74 isn’t much.”  Sam’s looking rather sulkily at the heater.  He didn’t do all this for merely temperate.

Dean comes over to look at the remote too, and swipes your phone along the way.  “Well, how about I turn it right up, and we’ll see.  Just this once.”

…

“HooAA **JEEE** ZUZ-SHIIIIITAKE-my- _FFFFFFFFF!_ ”  Just for a moment, a blinding, all-consuming moment, you fuck yourself against your jeans at the wild vibrations of the underwear, thudding your head on the steering wheel, whining as you hinge back, and miserably gulp air into your throat for all the mercy you can call upon.

A warm palm slides onto your shoulder.  “Just breathe,” he soothes.  “It’ll pass.  It’s just a panic attack.  It’ll pass.  This, too, shall pass.”

 _“Hhh, hhh, hhh,_  Oh my GODgod, I’m going to die!”  You thump back against the seat, as if you could make yourself straight.

“I know it feels like that, but you’re going to get through this.  You’ll be just fine.  Just breathe.”

“Wwwwww,” you try, hoping beyond reason that taking some instruction will keep him from figuring anything out.  “ _Wwwwww_.”

“Gooood girl.”

“Son of a-”

…

“Okay, we don’t have chilli.  How about steak?”

Sam’s dug up the manual and he looks like he’s had his finger held up just in case Dean walks back in.  “Hey, this thing goes up to 95,” he declares and looks up at Dean like he’s about to start an orchestra.  “I can’t do 95!  I’ll be a naked mess before dinner!”

“Yeah, okay! Well, just turn it down!”  Dean picks up the phone yet again and winds it back to something like what it was.  “Bet she’d like that though, huh?” he scoffs.  “Us, shirtless in the library.”

“Not when we’re sweating like pigs!”

Dean’s face says  _I guess_ , so he pops Sam out of that mental image and walks back to the kitchen daydreaming about how you’d like just him in there, sweating and topless, leaning back to fan himself.  He daydreams about your palms sliding over his chest, the way you’d look at him, and the hook of his hand behind your knee.

…

“Oh, Jesus, give me strength.”

“Amen.”  The guy listens to the tone of your breathing lower some, watches you ache and jolt in your seat.  “Is that your phone I can hear?”

For a second, you’re about to lose it.  Of all the fucking luck.  You can taste a curse on your tongue, but shit it, if he’s gone on this long, what more will he believe?  “Sure is.”

“You’re not going to answer it?”

“Not while driving, sir.”  You try to turn your head and look at him to say it.

“It’s heartening to see someone doing the right thing, ma’am.”  He’s distracted by something up ahead, then taps on your roof again.  “Okay, we’re moving.  You know what, I’ve got time; Imma escort you home-”

“No!  Please! THAt’s-”  You look up at him and force yourself to smile, even if your throat’s about to suck your ears into your head.  “That’s just too much attention.  It’ll freak me out. Big truck and all.”  You puff and smile and wring your grip on the steering wheel.

“Alright, then.  Well, there’s a turn off just here that’ll be accessible any second now.  You drive easy ma’am, and if you need, just pull over and take a break. Get there in one piece, yeah?”

“You’re a Godsend.”  You’re pretty sure it’s just your jeans holding your legs in shape. “I really”–need water–“cannot thank you enough.”

“Good day, ma’am.”  He saunters back to his truck, climbs in and gets on his radio.   _Yep, definitely vibrating panties._  That’s what he’s probably saying.   _She’s about to vaporise.  Over._

As soon as it’s safe, you overtake the traffic via the road shoulder, and take the turn-off.  You know the way home from here and spend the rest of the trip trying to figure out if you can feel anything but the frequency of the universe.

…

With your forehead on the steering wheel, you take a moment to fight back the tears and collect yourself.  You’d thought, once you got home, you’d fly out of the car and just shred your pants before the handbrake was on, but your muscles are toast, either too tight, or two jellied, you cannot even tell.

The damn mermaid scales can wait in the damn car, you decide, and you open the door, gingerly lifting each foot to get them on the ground, and haul yourself upright.

It’s a little easier standing, with your pants hanging instead of pressed.  You step sideways and swing the car door closed.  And then you take a short step, careful to not tuck your butt or mince your steps, and you find that if you walk as if your shoes can’t come off the ground, you can fake it.  You can. You can do this.  Because you can’t remove the pants in case you meet someone, and you have to find your mothertrucking phone.

Through the door bursts Dean, bounding up the steps and making you dig your nails into your palms at your fortune.  “Hey Y/N!  Dinner’s-  _Woah_  hey.  You okay?”

Oh god.  His hands are empty.  He’s worried.  He has no idea what’s happening.

“YeahI’mfine,” you say through your teeth.  “Where’z m’phone?”

“In the library.” Dean slides in beside you and takes your elbow and hand.  “You look terrible.  You sure you’re okay? Did you touch the scales?”

He better  _not_  have any idea.  “No! They’re fine! I j-st.  Gotta.” You let go of him and put your hands out flat, showing you can walk alone, and he moves back all of four inches, ghosting his support, just in case.

“What happened?” he asks, watching you move so gingerly.  The panties just sound like a buzzing light bulb somewhere.

“Dunno.  HARd to say.   _Hhnk_.”

At the top of the stairs you dart your arm out to snatch the rail, the rest of you moving at a glacial pace down to the first step.  Then you hop down a step, all in the ankles, and Dean swings around to your other side to supervise closely.

“That’s it,” he murmurs.  “Nice.  Good.”

You stop and swallow and ask your brain to just, please, ignore him for once.  Ignore how he’s coaching you for a completely unknown reason, just because this is what you seem to need.  Ignore his voice and care and just feel the cold rail against your palm.

“That’s the way… you get everything okay?”

Easy.  Two hands.  “S’fine, I uh-”  One step down and-  _wwoahgeez_.  Oh, finklefucking it’s different.  The vibration is lower, or under or something and when you step down it presses benea-  _Nope_.

Just drop into it. Okay.  Casual… “I- Jerr-RRR-rr-” Give it a tick.  “ _Jerry_. Was great.” Your thighs feel concussed and nothing’s working like it should, so when your heel slips you slide down a few steps surfing down to the bottom.  “OhAH-YA-YA-YAA-Ha!”  You might cry.  “I.  Sorry-”

“You okay?”

“Yeh!  I’m fine!  HA!”  You flap him away and keep going, as determined as an old lady who’s just dares you to say the words ‘walking frame’.

Dean twitches at your erratic behaviour, and peers at you teetering from side to side down the corridor.

“WOOooow! Ha-ha!”  Walking, man.  Fun.

You edge your way to the wall and use it to ground yourself, looking for all the world as though you’ve wet your pants.

“You got food poisoning?” Dean thinks you’re ill, and that’ll do for the moment so you don’t correct him.  He gives you some space, and tries to distance himself from your whimpers of discomfort, supervising a few yards behind.

“Dean? Do you think, hum-” You shake a hand and wipe your palm on your thigh.  “Couldju get my-”

“Okay, sorry, Y/N.  You’re gonna pass out before you get there.”  He can’t watch you struggle any more. He leans down beside you, hooks an arm behind your knee, pushes it into the other and scoops you off the ground, cinching your legs together and smothering the vibrations into your groin as he gathers you into his arms.

“OH! JEEZuh,  _Dean!_ ”

“S’ok,” he soothes.  “I gotcha.  Just don’t puke on me.”

“Fu _hhhhh!_ ”  You try to press your chest against his to get the sound of your pants away from him, and the shape of you actually smothers the noise quite well, but it also mashes the vibrations into the corners of your groin and you think your clit might just detach in hope of some relief.  

And then, bounced in his determined arms, with his ear by yours, and his rhythmic breath working against you, you give in.  As though your lungs can’t get any fuller, you exhale and sag, just for a moment, even if all your insides come out, yet it feels  _sublime_.  You drive your fingertips up the back of his head, hold on tight and peep a high  _Oh!_ through a fresh flush of sweat.

You suspect you’ve come.  Feels likely.  You’re certainly wetter, but whether your pussy’s developed a death grip on nothing, or started to atrophy, well, that’s anyone guess.

And the panties are  _still buzzing_.  You whimper “Uh-huh!”, rest your head on Dean’s shoulder and begin to feel sorry for yourself.

Dean pulls you tighter, trying to support you, ignoring your grip on his hair.  He just walks as smoothly and quickly as he can towards your room.

“My phone!” you peep.  “Please.  Need my-”

“On it,” he mutters, and heads for the library.

It’s about a full minute of torture.  Dean’s light sweat at the work, his little grunts over your shoulder, his hands holding hard and his bulky arms pushing into your form, it’s all cruel.  You can open your eyes and look at his t-shirt over his shoulders and every glorious, intimate fantasy you’ve ever suppressed, it all taps in, your sensibilities practically naked and dancing around the fire in your core.

“Almost there, Y/N.  You’re doin’ so good.” His bassy words thrum against your neck and your fingers curl at the closeness.  Then he tucks you up again, nudging everything, and you gasp high and feel like you’ll burst into water.  Did you come again?  Have you been coming this whole time? A second later he’s taking the steps, jolting you awake, and suddenly you’re not sure if it’s sweat or tears.

He pulls up by the table and grabs the phone, letting you rest on his lap as he takes a seat.  “Here you go.”

Your hands shake so much you have to reject the “Undo typing” prompt, then find the app and turn that goddamn motherfucking shitting toy from hell the fuck  _down_.

Dean frowns at what you’re doing.  “It’s for the heater,” he states, and brushing your hair away from your face.

“Uh-huh,” you nod, unable to argue because you’re puffing like an Olympian, face slack, and you let your limbs fall where they may, the phone clattering to the ground.

It’s stopped.  The panties have stopped.  It’s just you, your frazzled skin and concussed groin, breathing and delirious.

He’s patient, though curious about how this is all connected.  He keeps looking at you in his arms, and the phone on the floor, and the heater on the wall.  “Y/N?  That’s for the new heater.  We installed a heater for you.” A few seconds later he waggles you awake and watches you open your eyes.

You look up the wall and see the new white box up there.  ‘Ho,” you manage.  “Thank you.”

“Was it too hot?”

“I’s hot enough.”  A light pat on his chest and you close your eyes and go back to trying to breathe with a closed mouth.

Dean brushes your hair again, not that it’s necessary.  “You want me to carry you back to your room?”

Yes, but surely you haven’t burned away all your dignity.  “No, thank you.”

He gets you onto your feet and helps you most of the way to your full height.  Standing up straight is like stacking all your parts on top of each other, and Dean’s eyebrows float up at your rosy cheeks and musky sweat.  He’d ask if you’re okay, if you weren’t so distracting.

You let him go and stand tall and, even though the first Bambi step swings out at the knee, you’re good, good to go.  Just one foot after the other.  Just keep not falling.

“You… you’re feeling better suddenly?”

“Almost.”  There simply isn’t enough brain power in you to imagine what Dean’s thinking, nor to remember that you left your phone behind.

Dean picks it up off the floor, squinting at the app and the half-circle diagram.  He looks up at the heater again, which is clearly still pumping out a temperature that goes with cocktails, and finally puts it all together.  On a hunch, he puts a thumb to the screen and slides the gauge up and down.

This time he hears the little  _mmmMMMmmm_  of the panties and you buckle, just for a second, grabbing your knees.  “HA! F-ck! Oh please, no.”

Involuntarily, Dean whispers, “Holy shit.”

You turn around, blindly stumble your way back to him, and lean your head on his chest as you run your hands down each forearm to find which hand as the phone, yank it from his hold and turn the cursed device off again.

Dean puts his hands on your shoulders, kindly as he can, and leans his head down until his mouth is resting on your hair.  “I am so.   _Sorry_ ,” he mumbles.

“Hmm,” you whine.

It was him, the whole time, driving your vibrating panties for however long, and he missed it.  “Lemme- um.”  He takes a deep breath, and tries again with a firmer voice.  “Let me take you back to your room.  Get you settled.”

“‘Kay.”  Honestly, at this point the bunker could be overrun with cockroach overlords and you’d just nod.

Dean crouches a little and steps closer, grabbing his own wrist at the top of your thighs to lift you up and drape you over himself.  It makes your legs spread, knees either side of his waist and you slide your arms up his and around his shoulders.  He shifts his chin over your shoulder and lets himself feel everywhere you are, nudging his head against yours a little.

“Think I might owe you some aftercare,” he says.

“Think-” Slurp, swallow, blink.  “Think I may not be able to look you in the eye again.”

“Sure you can,” he chuckles. He’s walking through the map room and towards the bedrooms, easily tucking you up against himself, smiling at the musky fragrance now that he recognises it.  “Hey, it’s my fault for mixing up the apps, isn’t? I’m the one who should be embarrassed.”

You watch the tiles go by and try not to think about it, lest you be mortified beyond saving.  He carries you without comment, for long, quiet yards, and you’re tempted doze.

“Can’t believe we spent so long installing that heater.”  Your door’s already open and he kicks it out of the way.  “Not even gonna need it now I know I can warm you up like this.”

“Oooooh, I thought they  _were_  warming panties,” you slur into his shoulder.  “I swear.  I thought they’d heat me.  Not vibrate me to kingdom come.”

Dean starts to giggle and you groan and bury your face in his shoulder.  “You mock my innocence.”

He puts you down at the end of your bed and you promptly drop onto your butt. Dean takes a knee between your feet.  You avoid looking at him at all.

“Hey, I’m not teasin’,” he promises.  “It’s just cute as all hell.”

“Well, thank goodness it was you at this end,” you shrug. “Kinda glad none of that was Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh God, the awkwardness!” You throw yourself backwards, flopping onto the bed, and work your way up to the pillows.  “He’d be twitchin’ and shufflin’ around me for a month!  Mumbling his g’mornin’s and squintin’ at shit.  I couldn’t cope.” You grab a handful of blanket and roll, folding it over yourself to get some rest. “Can I tell you about the trucker escort later?”

Dean tucks his lips into his mouth and lets his eyebrows float high with all the questions.  “Wow.  Yes, you can.”  He stands and backs into the open doorway, taking the doorknob before saying, “Just so you know, if you think I’m gonna be unaffected by all this, you’re kidding yourself.”

“Waddya mean?” You pop your head up to see him.

For a few moments, he just looks at you, thinking hard about something… “Did you like it? Was it nice?”

You hitch yourself up on on elbow.  “Parts of it, I guess.”

“Would’ve you have liked it more if you’d known it was me doing it?”

Damn.  Damn, damn, damn as if you can look away from him now. You have no idea what your face is doing, but something about you makes the corner of his mouth quirk up, and little How-about-that smile blooms too.  He flicks off the light and you watch his silhouette pull the door closed.  “Get some rest, Y/N.  I’ll check on you later.”

“Could you please wake me for dinner?”

“Sure thing,” he says. “I’ll give you a buzz.”

His footsteps echo down the hallway, and after a second or so you pull your phone from your back pocket, just to check you still have it.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a sequel - [The Enlightenment of a Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800148) \- where Dean tries to cure your embarrassment by evening the playing field. What's good for the goose, right?


End file.
